


A Matter of Perspective

by Ladycat



Series: Shadow'verse [10]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beneficial misconceptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Perspective

There was this thing he did. She hated it, at first, because really, rude much? She was perfectly capable of walking up the stairs or waiting in line or whatever bizarre trigger set him off, without help. Also, it felt like _pushing_ , forceful and taking things like determining the stupid speed she _walked at_ away from her.

So she got mad. She glared at him, sometimes. When that didn’t work, she huffed and would pointedly remove herself from the range of his arms. She spent almost a week doing that before she realized it wasn’t annoyance that made his face crease like that.

It was sadness.

“Hey, um, Willow?” Dawn twisted her fingers together, the almost pain of her skin going too tight necessary to keep her feet still. “Are there any books on chivalry? Or, um. I think it’s called courtly love?”

Willow made the weirdest faces. She thought she didn’t, so it was always funny when she got so _mad_ when people reacted to what she looked like instead of what she said. This face was _uh oh, do I have to worry about something?_ and also _she wants what about what?_ and maybe just a little bit of _maybe it’s time for the feminist lecture again_. “Dawnie, courtly love wasn’t really about love. The rituals were supposed to mean that, love and respect, but really it was just another way for—”

Rolling her eyes, Dawn huffed. She was getting good at that, much better than a few months ago. “I _know_ all of that, really! I’m not a dumb kid. I just want to know what the rituals _are_.”

Eyebrows up, Willow’s whole body twitched towards the bed—that was where Tara normally sat, when they were in the room together. Anything about Dawn that Willow didn’t get, which was a whole lot, lately, called for looking at Tara for direction. It was almost amusing to see Willow try and muddle through it on her own.

Dawn wanted to make it easier on her. She _did_ , despite the looks Xander gave her sometimes. She didn’t want to be so at odds with Willow. It was just that Willow didn’t understand, not the way Tara or Xander did, and Willow knew it. It made her jealous and unhappy that only made things worse, and Dawn didn’t know how to fix it.

Neither did Tara or Xander, though, either. So maybe her not knowing wasn’t so bad.

Straightening and trying to look cool, Willow said, “Well, there are books I can get from the library for you, if you want. Or I can just give you this.”

The bookshelf that used to hold Dick Francis novels and Jon LeCarre and a _ton_ of romance novels now held everything from Tara’s sociology text books to small, thin pamphelts that definitely didn’t come from a publishing house. Dawn made certain she never touched those.

The last time, something had sparked and her fingers had felt cold for days. She was _pretty_ sure it was just static electricity...

Willow withdrew a book that was entitled _Bloody Good: Chivalry, Sacrifice, and the Great War_. “I had to read this for class, but it might give you what you’re looking for.”

Okay. So, sometimes Willow really didn’t get it and got scary and upset because of it. But sometimes she got it too _fast_ , too. Dawn blushed and tried to make her fingers steady as she took the book. “Thank you. Um.”

Willow tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Take your time. I don’t need it for my paper until next month.”

This was as close to bonding Dawn could really handle, on this particular subject. Clutching her book, she fled.

* * *

“This line is taking for _ever_ ,” she whined, glaring at the person behind her. It wasn’t her fault that he’d heard her say the same thing five minutes ago. He could go listen to something else. “Why don’t you, like, _do_ something, you know? Encourage it, or or—I don’t know!”

She was too old to be looked at like that, all fond and amused and exasperatedly happy with her. “Bitlet, you know we’re here on sufferance. Come on, it’s not too much longer.”

She whined again, wordlessly, kicking a stray pebble. It wasn’t like she wanted to act like a bratty ten year old. She knew she was being a jerk to everyone around her, and Spike especially, but she couldn’t help it. She was _bored_ and this stupid, stupid line went on for _ever_ and at this rate she was going to miss the entire _thing_ , and the tickets had been a gift and she really just—

“Dawn.” Spike didn’t call her Dawnie, ever. His nicknames were always of the bizarre or incomprehensible-to-others variety. She liked that about him, since it was just their little secret. “Line’s moving, love.”

Well, except for that nickname, but that was just because he was British.

Bouncing excitedly, Dawn made sure she didn’t actually dart forward, the way she wanted to. Instead, she waited. It was really hard to not glance out of the corner of her eye, too, especially when the guy behind her started grumbling.

Time to get a clue, she thought hard. Sometimes that worked, actually, and without the kind of freaky invasiveness of Willow’s methods. His wasn't invasion, after all, just freakishly good understand and perception and other things Dawn knew about but didn't mind.

The grumbling behind them got louder. It was ridiculous, since she was only going forward maybe ten—okay, now more like fifteen—feet, but god forbid if people couldn’t get that much closer. Also, she was _not_ going to break first. She wasn’t. Uh uh. She was a girl with a plan and it was going to work.

It was her neck, which surprised her. Normally when others were around it was the small of her back, a light, almost ignorable pressure that made people back up as much as it propelled her forward.

Carefully letting herself lean back, just a little, she tried not to grin.

“You’re a cheeky little brat,” Spike told her cheerfully. He guided her forward the now twenty feet between her and the rest of the line, thumb rubbing where hair met skin. “Thought you didn’t like this.”

She shrugged, not dislodging his hold on her. It still felt weird, actually, but the weight of his arm against her shoulders was reassuringly familiar, and when the line surged around them, it was easy for him to draw her close, leaning her against his body.

And that? That was _perfect_. Sighing, Dawn nestled closer.

“Just had to figure some things out,” she said against his coat. It smelled like leather and whiskey, but not the way people smelled after drinking too much. More like what the bottle itself smelled like, warm and homey and just the right kind of sharp.

Mom would’ve _hated_ that, probably. Maybe.

“Hey, will you let me try whiskey?” she asked.

“What?” His hand dropped, settling around her waist instead so he could turn and glare at her. “Are you trying to soften me up? Christ, Xander said you were plotting something, but I thought it was you on a tear about what I used to be like, not you trying to get yourself plastered!”

She snickered. Behind her, people listened with interest as Spike continued to rant at her underage shenanigans. He couldn’t care less about what they thought, so long as _she_ knew what he meant was _not a chance in hell am I doing anything that means you get hurt_.

“I don’t want to get drunk, Spike,” she protested when some of the attention grew sharper. She didn’t want him to get in trouble, not again. They played enough games with her status as orphan. “I just want to, you know. Try it. See what it tastes like.”

“You are a spoiled, greedy little wench,” Spike told her. He was leaning forward so that his nose almost touched hers, his hand around the back of her neck again. His skin wasn’t warm, not burning hot the way Xander’s was, but she was used to that. Spike touched her a lot more than Xander did. “And you’re just lucky I love you, nibblet.”

She knew his last sentence was calculated. Between his twenty-something punk looks, her very obviously underage status, and the way they both went from stiltedly formal to cuddly she knew exactly what the people around her thought they were. Spike calling her nicknames that clearly weren’t ‘snookums’ or ‘honey’ made people feel ashamed and backed off. It let them get away with a lot of stuff.

But that wasn’t why he said it, just why he said it the _way_ he did.

Snuggling in close again, Dawn watched the line stretch forward. They were _never_ going to get into the concert on time. “I really am,” she said firmly.

“Hm? Really what?”

“Lucky.”


End file.
